Charmed and Dangerous

by Toni McGee Causey

  “Her mamma sure was a pretty Contraband Days Queen,” Monique said, interrupting Ce Ce’s memory. “Before the cancer got her, of course.”

  Ce Ce opened her eyes to see her friend with her wild red hair spiked at odd angles, a heavy splattering of freckles across her wide face. Monique, a plump fortyish mom of four, had such a benign, benevolent appearance, total strangers would leave their kids with her while she was in line at the grocery store when they had to run back to get “just one” item.

  “Too bad she inherited her mamma’s nature.”

  “Nah, honey, that’s not from her mamma. Necia’s crazy was a lot softer, fuzzy around the edges. She might not remember where she put things.”

  “Like her kids?”

  “You heard about that one?”

  “Everybody’s heard that one. Left ’em at the grocery store. Completely forgot she’d taken ’em with her, didn’t even notice they weren’t at home ’til the sheriff called her.”

  “Yeah, honey, that was Necia. In her own world. Nothing like Bobbie Faye’s brand of crazy.”

  The phone jangled again. It had been ringing incessantly all morning and Ce Ce hadn’t answered it since the ruckus started; the media always called her first, trying to get a comment on the record and, standard operating procedure, she wasn’t available. If Bobbie Faye called in, she’d use the private line, and anybody else could go to hell, as far as Ce Ce was concerned. And then one of the twins (geez, she really needed to make one of them dye her hair or streak it or something to tell them apart) brought her the phone. When she glanced down, she saw it was the regular line and she started to chastise the girl, who headed her off with, “I think you gonna want it, Ceece. It’s Cam. He sounds pretty pissed.”

  Ce Ce grabbed the phone, snapping it up and said, “You know I’m not about to tell you a damned thing.”

  “You’d sure as hell better,” Cam said, his fury quiet and controlled. “Obstruction of justice, Ce Ce, carries—”

  “Oh, hush, Cam, honey. You couldn’t get obstruction on me if your mamma gift-wrapped it and mailed it to you directly. I don’t know anything, anyway.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’ve got the dogs out here, Ce Ce. I’m fixing to have to turn ’em loose and chase her down.”

  “Don’t you be puttin’ no dogs on my girl, Cam.”

  “You want the FBI to get to her first and maybe kill her?” he asked, and Ce Ce felt like she’d just frozen clear to the spot. She listened as he gave her the brief version of the strange man with Bobbie Faye. She knew he wasn’t telling her everything, but he was telling her more than he should have because he knew she wouldn’t say a word. And, she knew, he was hoping it would soften her up to spilling something he could use.

  “Hon,” she said, “I don’t know a thing. Except . . .” She debated a second. “Except she was pretty scared when she came in this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that girl actually scared, you know?”

  “Oh, hell.”

  She knew what he meant. Bobbie Faye was a handful when she was calm and her version of ‘rational.’ God only knew what chaos she could wreak when she was running scared.

  “You keep me updated,” she said, and he ended the call without saying anything else.

  When she hung up, she gave Monique a nod which sent the other woman to the back room to get more ingredients. One bowlfull of magic was not even gonna begin to cover it.

  Roy watched Vincent lower the sound on the TVs and click the stereo on; “Luck Be A Lady” hummed, one of the Rat Pack songs his mom had loved. He remembered her dancing with Bobbie Faye in their living room when he was buried in comic books, too much a guy to dance to that weasely music. Eddie glanced up and chuckled.

  “Good song, Boss.”

  Vincent laughed, and headed toward the elaborate liquor bar at the far end of the room, then paused, and danced a few Fred Astaire steps, pulling into a neat slide just as he reached the bar. Roy could never have managed that sort of debonair footwork, though he was a damned fine two-stepper down at Cat Balou’s every Thursday night. The ladies loved being swept off their feet and it kept talking to a minimum. He was impressed with Vincent’s ability, just a little envious, and he knew he could learn a lot from the man’s charm and finesse.

  While Vincent fixed himself a Glenlivet, Roy heard him take a call and negotiate the sale of some item, stolen from the sound of it, for which he was asking seven-point-five million. Vincent played hardball while smoothly dancing back to his desk, pausing for a brief moment in front of that antique-looking handwritten book he kept under glass on his desk.

  “Ah,” he purred into the phone, “Renee, you underestimate me, as always. My asking price will go up in an hour when I call our Iraqi friend. I know he’ll pay more, though he’s such a hassle to deal with these days, I’d just as soon forgo it for a quick sale, but only at my price. No? Ah, well, too bad, Renee. It would have looked good in your collection.”

  He hung up, and seemed, to Roy, to be clearly unruffled at having turned down seven-point-two million dollars because it wasn’t his asking price of seven-point-five.

  Just who the hell are these people?

  This might be the worst jam Roy had ever found himself in.

  The time with Carmen and the meat cleaver was starting to edge down to number two on the “top-ten” slot, and Bobbie Faye had saved him from that one, too. It had never occurred to Roy that a woman might get angry if the flowery things he’d said weren’t exactly true. Of course, he meant them. Each and every time. But people didn’t really mean those things permanently, right? He had figured the only people who finally settled down were the ones who didn’t know better or the other ones too unlucky (babies, debt) to do anything about it. The idea that a woman really and truly might have wanted to live an entire suffocating life with him boggled his mind. Not as much as Carmen wielding the meat cleaver, mind you, because he never thought women could use weapons. He remembered being genuinely shocked that Bobbie Faye had figured out he was in trouble that day and had shown up in time to throw a blanket over Carmen and confuse the woman long enough to lock her in a closet until the police had gotten there.

  “Did you not pay attention,” Bobbie Faye had asked him afterwards, “to the fact that her dad is a butcher? And no one has seen her ex, what’shisname . . . Joe Thibodeaux, since Carmen caught him dithering that blonde bimbo over at the hair salon?”

  He hadn’t, in fact, paid attention at all. He had not really thought he needed to. He thought everyone knew he wasn’t a forever type of guy.

  He was more than worried, though, about what to do now. Eddie and The Mountain looked bored waiting for Bobbie Faye to resurface on TV or call. Eddie had already skimmed through every decorating magazine piled up on the fancy tables in the office. (He kept raving about something called “toile” and something else called “jabots” and Roy prayed to God these weren’t some kind of stealth Ninja decorating weapons.) The Mountain had finished his morning nap and was cracking his knuckles, a horrifying noise which echoed in the room with all the subtlety of breaking bones.

  Vincent leaned forward, balancing his pointed chin on steepled fingers. “Tell me more about Bobbie Faye, Roy. I am intrigued.”

  Roy stiffened in the chair. “Why do you want me to tell you about Bobbie Faye?” he asked Vincent.

  “Entertainment, my boy. Unless you want Eddie to get bored.”

  Eddie picked up his knife, pricking the edge of the blade to test its sharpness.

  “Oh, no, definitely wouldn’t want Eddie to get bored.”

  “Good. So. Tell me about Bobbie Faye.”

  Roy thought about all the Bobbie Faye-isms, rejecting the first three stories that popped to mind from when they were kids because they all ended with Bobbie Faye beating the crap out of him for doing something incredibly stupid. The last thing Roy needed was to give Vincent any whiff of suspicion that Bobbie Faye might not be loyal or care what happened to him.

  “There was this time,�
� he said, finally remembering a decent story, “when I was in eighth grade and Bobbie Faye was in the tenth. One day after I’d hit on one of the halfback’s girlfriends, the guy and his brother jumped me in the parking lot after school with a broken Coke bottle to my throat. The next thing I know, Bobbie Faye was standing there in front of the biggest one—he had to have weighed a good hundred-fifty pounds more than Bobbie Faye—and the only thing she had in her hand to use as a weapon was a pencil. A freakin’ pencil! But you’d never know it to see her in action. . . .”

  The sound of helicopter blades drumming the air increased. The noise still seemed distant from Bobbie Faye and Trevor’s position, though at least one was sweeping toward them in ever wider circles.

  “Idiots! It sounds like there’s a zillion helicopters up there,” Bobbie Faye said. “You’d think we were Bonnie and Clyde. Why the hell do they think they need so many? They’re going to run into each other and then they’re going to say it’s all my fault.”

  “There are only three, right now,” Trevor said, still walking quickly ahead, avoiding clearings or paths which may have opened up the canopy above them. “There’s a Bell JetRanger, used by most media outlets. The Bell 47 up there is from your local state police, and it sounds like there’s a Huey. Probably FBI.”

  “Man, you’re just oozing the warm fuzzies. Does Hallmark know about you?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You got all of that . . . from the sound?”

  “Sure.”

  Bobbie Faye stopped, her suspicions confirmed. No normal guy knew that sort of stuff. She knew guys who could tell you exactly what kind of rifle may have been shot just from the sound miles away. She knew guys who could listen to the sound of a truck out on the interstate and tell someone the type of custom muffler it had, down to the year it was made. She’d even dated one guy who could freakishly distinguish the specific factory where a Harley-Davidson motorcycle was built just from the sound of its engine.

  Which meant . . . he was a lot more than the good ol’ boy he had seemed at first.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Trevor glanced over his shoulder, saw she’d stopped, and walked back to her.

  “Technically, I’m your hostage.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and his touch gently skimmed along her jaw until he tapped her chin, a light, playful gesture that didn’t quite match the heat in his eyes. How on earth did this man do that? They were standing in the middle of a swamp, ten paces from a dead snake and probably a helluva lot closer to live ones than she wanted to think about, and he had her thinking of soft beds or long stretches of empty beach or lazy hammocks under the stars, all featuring the words “naked” and “hot damn!” She was an idiot (okay, some would say that was stating the obvious), and she had to wrest back control. Now.

  She didn’t smile. She no longer trusted the crinkle at the corner of those damned eyes. His expression grew serious.

  “I’m the guy trying to help you. I just happen to know a little about helicopters.”

  “How?”

  “How isn’t important.”

  “I think it is.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “My brother’s life is at stake. I don’t know what would make a difference. I should know these things. I’m running around out here, trusting you to get me to a boat, and it just hit me how much I don’t know you. I’m putting his life—oh, geez. What if the guy holding him thinks I’m not coming? I haven’t called in! I don’t have the—the thing! Shit!”

  She wanted to run, but she didn’t know where they were headed, exactly, and she spun, panic welling from her chest, and she spun again, frantic, desperate for an answer. He caught her by the arm.

  “If this guy’s as smart as he seems, then he’s watching the TV. The media helicopter, remember? He’ll know you’re alive, and still out here. He’ll know you’re after it. Whatever the hell it is.”

  “You’re right. Right. Yes. Good.”

  What if he wasn’t?

  She was having trouble breathing.

  Trevor moved on through the rough, boggy terrain. The minutes ticked away, daggers slicing at her heart.

  They’d been silent for a little while when he finally asked, “You said this thing wasn’t valuable?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s got to have some worth. Somehow. Is there anyone you could call to research it?”

  “Why?”

  “Leverage, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe knowing what it was worth could help you somehow.”

  “There’s no one to call,” she said. “It was just an old heirloom kind of thing, a piece of junk, really. My great-great-great-grandfather made it.”

  “A piece of junk?”

  She shrugged.

  Obviously, the tiara meant something. The what was beyond her comprehension. She’d held it a thousand times at least, feeling every bump and ridge, scratch and indentation. That there was some hidden meaning or value to it clashed so completely with her perception of it as nothing more than a sentimental keepsake, it made her dizzy. The design was basic. Simple as to be almost childlike. There was nothing of any worth inherent in the material used—just plain old iron from a blacksmith’s forge. Maybe the blacksmith was famous? Well, then the fame was fairly well hidden, given that the world wasn’t exactly putting up blacksmiths’ photos on trading cards. She had to get to that tiara. . . .

  And then just hand it over? What would make the kidnapper keep Roy alive? Was Trevor right? Could knowing the value give her leverage to save Roy’s life? At least the media’s attention was very likely buying her that time.

  A realization slammed into her: the TV coverage which was, she hoped, keeping Roy’s chances afloat, had probably destroyed her shot at remaining Stacey’s guardian. She had no money for an attorney and she wondered what kind of jail time she could do if she just took Stacey somewhere safe until Lori Ann was deemed fit enough to parent again. Of course, with Lori Ann, that might not happen. Bobbie Faye didn’t know what she would do, because no way was that child going to strangers.

  She was caught up enough in the fear that she didn’t see a root and tripped, scraping her arm against the bark of the tree; she would have fallen completely, but Trevor caught her just in time. He opened his mouth, probably to say something smartass judging by his expression, then his expression changed, less harsh, and he simply helped her stand and continue. She didn’t realize until about forty paces later that she had tears on her cheeks.

  They reached a large clearing and circumvented it instead of crossing straight through. She stopped when she heard dogs baying.

  “Sonofabitch,” she said, her heart sinking. “Goddamnit, Cam.” If she’d had any doubts, they were dispelled now. He really did hate her that much, and she wanted to scream in frustration.

  “Who’s Cam?” Trevor asked, having stopped a few paces ahead.

  “You don’t want to know.” She stood, trying to squelch the panic; breathe in, breathe out. “But those dogs are the best. He’s probably getting the biggest freaking kick out of this. God, I swear, I could just kill him.”

  Trevor cocked his ear toward the sound the dogs were making as if judging the distance from the sound alone.

  “You may get your chance.”

  Eleven

  Wait . . . let me get this straight. You. Want me. To give Bobbie Faye Sumrall flaming batons for the camp talent show? I just don’t have that kind of death wish.

  —Tamar Bihari, Wemawacki’s fifth-grade camp counselor

  They ran.

  The dogs bayed as branches pummeled Bobbie Faye. Trevor barged through spiderwebs, drafting long silken strands behind him like silver kite tails. Where the spiders dove to, Bobbie Faye did not know and she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t find out. She had to wrap her long hair around one hand and hold it so it wouldn’t fly and snag and trap her in the brambles she passed.

  Perspiration slicked her skin as her boots sunk in
to the soggy ground and then suctioned back up again. She ached. Her stomach growled. She wanted to point out to her stomach that this was not exactly the time to be growling. Her stomach sent a loud memo that it really didn’t give a damn; it hadn’t had anything since the biscuit, and the night before she’d been all diet-conscious and had eaten a light salad because she had wanted to be able to eat freely at the festival today.

  Thwap. Another branch sprang back, smacking her in the face, snapping her back to the present. No matter how she tried to distract herself, the hounds’ baying echoed off the trees. Closer.

  And closer.

  Being careful wasn’t an option anymore. They sprinted flat-out through the woods . . . past snakes, lizards, squirrels, coons, and God knows what else. She knew there were panthers in some parts of south Louisiana, and black bears, and geez, she needed a reverse for her brain to go back to not thinking about the woods’ inhabitants.

  The barking echoed, moving closer, surrounding her senses.

  Bobbie Faye prayed that if Cam was with the dogs, he was somewhere far far behind them. Preferably tripping, falling, and smacking himself unconscious. (Well, a girl could hope.)

  She gave herself a mental shaking. She didn’t want to think of the baying dogs, or by extension, the man behind them. There were serious things to think about. She was running for her life, trying to get to a boat so she could get to the tiara so she could save Roy’s life before she had to kick his ass from here to Texas for being such a screwup as to get them in this mess in the first place. (She was not ranting. She was listing. An entirely different thing.)

  She was short of breath and hurting all over, but she could do serious. Of course she could. Because she was not going to think random, silly thoughts. Bobbie Faye was not, for instance, going to think about the fact that Victoria’s Secret underwire lace bras are so not made for running for your life through the woods. Or anywhere, for that matter. Especially if the breasts were a “C” cup.